(O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter’d—and the heavy wind Was giantlike—so thou, my mind!— It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s prayer— The hum of suitors—and the tone Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp’d a tyranny which men Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power; My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there liv’d one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burn’d with a still intenser glow, (For passion must, with youth, expire) E’en _then_ who knew this iron heart In woman’s weakness had a part. I have no words—alas!—to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To fantasies—with none. O, she was worthy of all love! Love—as in infancy was mine— ’Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my ev’ry hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift, For they were childish—and upright— Pure—as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? We grew in age—and love—together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather— And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d, And she would mark the opening skies, _I_ saw no Heaven—but in her eyes. Young Love’s first lesson is—the heart: For ‘mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears— There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet any fears Of her—who ask’d no reason why, But turn’d on me her quiet eye! Yet _more_ than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone— I had no being—but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth—the air—the sea— Its joy—its little lot of pain That was new pleasure—the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night— And dimmer nothings which were real— (Shadows—and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became